


it's your world, not mine

by Aerine



Category: The Umbrella Academy (Comics), The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, F/M, Is Diego/Reader end game no idea, Reader-Insert, Sexual Content, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2019-11-13 07:51:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18027716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerine/pseuds/Aerine
Summary: You are Number Eight, the epitome of extraordinary in a crowd of the mundane. So is Number One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, and... maybe not Seven. The more you remain aligned with the Hargreeves name, the more you wish you weren't.Reality is what grounds you to this fact, although you can't help but like your siblings... just a bit.





	1. An Unfortunate Beginning

You recalled of a story told to you as hands warm and careful pulled back your blanket to allow you room to climb inside your bed, a woeful narrative escaping past cherry lipstick that popped in a second of playful pondering. “On October 1st, forty-three women gave birth simultaneously…” she would begin to say, except you were too enthralled in the plethora of worlds behind her gaze despite how artificial her very existence was to your world. To continue the story, the stars had aligned on that day in 1989 to bless these forty-three women with children, allowing them to skip nine months of back pains and cravings to give birth to babies some didn’t desire to have. Now the lovely Sir Reginald Hargreeves, a billionaire of his own quirks, decided to take note of this and search throughout the world for these children for his own ulterior motives that the world might turn the other cheek from.

… He got seven of them.

You wished the man halted his search at seven when your mother accompanied you at his doorstep, her hands firm yet cold clawing at the straps of your backpack. There was a frown tugging at your lips, your mind plagued with thoughts too horrifying to bear. If her hands left you for just a second, you could run; your escape was never too far out of reach, an endless field of flowers where you could choose to be a kid. A girl living for nine and a half years should be building friendships at school, riding swing sets high into the sky with such reckless abandon that she wouldn’t care what would happen if she happened to move an inch off her seat. Instead, you were nine years of age, forced to deal with the opposite and a mother who sometimes couldn’t bear to look at you. Reality gripped at your shoulders and forced you to remain at the edge of your seat, as you were not permitted to lose yourself to insanity when around you were constant noise and reminders that you existed among billions.

It was no surprise to Sir Reginald Hargreeves for your mother to appear at his doorstep, as he knew the offer held on the table over her newborn’s life was too much to resist, the eye behind his monocle shuffling from you to the bookbag painted with a disgusting, bright lilac and unicorns too content to match your demeanor. Children your age, sharing your birthday, sharing your sign, peeked from the doors leading to their father’s chamber, following his actions with a curiosity that did nothing to relieve the tightness traveling throughout your body. With a diverse cast of superheroes, a glance over your shoulder placed you between two of them; to your right would have been the one with curls flowing past her hips having arms crossed over the other, to your left a passive child of Asian descent allowing himself to be overshadowed by the other members of his family. This would be your family if this man who decided to play God deemed it so, and the fact left you with such contempt you pondered if you would ever grow to like them following this mundane Sunday.

“I live in my own little world, sir, and I can bring anyone I want into it when I touch ‘em,” you responded when asked, tone lifting a bit, “’S hard, though. Everyone’s so fucking loud.” You paused, your finger tapping at your head. “It’s quiet here.”

One of the children chimed in with, “Dad, _everybody_ has their own little world. She can’t be that special.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I think I am.”

You thought correctly, as Sir Reginald Hargreeves had eventually deemed you as Number Eight and eyed your mother’s back as she trotted towards the mansion’s exit with enough cash to last her for her lifetime, never to be seen again by eyes growing used to seeing hers. Instead, you were to search for comfort in the eyes of a woman created to be your mother, Grace, and love you she did. For years of your life you were addressed as this number, with hardly any of your siblings allowing you to make contact for the first year of your meeting but two. You would argue the two of them fell just short of family to you, except your routine of waking up to breakfast at the table with seven of them at your side, training to eventually one-up the other in the grand scheme of things… perhaps this was meant to be your family, after all.

Klaus and Ben certainly made the idea bearable.


	2. Diego

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What a mistake it was to seat you right next to Diego Hargreeves at the dinner table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to stick with drabbles :)

As if not being able to put into words the disaster that was the city you inhabited, the ordinary chaos you were thrust into at an early age, a huff fell from your lips as your back pressed against the double doors of the Hargreeves residence. When the sun rose and birds sang their tunes on a weekday, your home would gain its vigor once again, as one would find children running around with the intention to grant pride to parents that returned the favor with love that didn’t feel like love. Today was no different, except there came the unfortunate fact that _you_ were different, so your siblings would peek their heads out from their bedroom doors to witness your retreating back the moment the sky manifested itself into hues of pink and orange. Then, as if you never left, their doors would close and they all would climb underneath their covers for perhaps two more hours of sleep before breakfast.

“Welcome home, Eight. Was the weather to your liking?”

You strode past the chimpanzee with another huff, your hand waving off his greeting as trivial with a, “Kinda,” murmured under your breath. Perhaps that was a sign you were lowering your guard, since a grin stretched at his cheeks and accentuated his youth of a way of thinking that outmatched yours. Nonetheless, his hands remained clasped with one another behind his back as he trailed behind your sulking form into the dining room where your family gathered around the table fit for ten in silence. Behind your adopted father stood your mother with a grin so wide your hairs used to stand at the thought of it, her crimson nails tapping at the skin of her knuckles as her feet were planted in the carpet with no intention of moving towards that seat beside him on the table. A waste of space she was, feigning interest in a complete waste of your time: a compulsory silence upon a home that housed eleven people.

Claiming your spot at the table beside the prosaic Hargreeves sibling incapable of performing feats like you or the other six seated before you, the weight upon your shoulders lifted the moment you dragged your body along the back of your chair. A squeak was what echoed through the silence, the groan of a chair sliding just an inch to the right, except you inhaled the intake of air Vanya was meant to breathe in before your eyes shuffled to the gaze averted by your fellow Libra, Diego. A scowl weighing down at your face, nose crinkling at the audacity of him to go through such lengths just so he wouldn’t have to experience your powers… perhaps the demonstration of anger would only satisfy you if spite was the catalyst behind it. With your body still reeling from the commotion beyond the walls of your household, your mind struggling to adjust to the hush compared to the coughing and sputtering of engines and careless banter among cultures, you snuck a glance at the head of the table too occupied in cutting into egg yolks spilling all over his plate.

 _Fuck you_ , you decided, _and fuck Dad’s dumb, stupid eggs._

Your hand creeped towards Diego’s, snatching it from his lap and intertwining his fingers with yours. The millisecond of bliss granted to you, a child up to no good, was a wave of water edging closer to feet sinking in the sand; just one blink and the wave slithered between your toes, another one washing away the vision of the place you had been unfortunate enough to call home the past year. When your eyes adjusted to your surroundings, no longer of rays of light phasing through the squares of your windows or children already looking forward to the end of their day, the sight you were greeted with was the reminiscence of a past left behind.

“W-W—” Diego paused, his lips twisting in an attempt to force one word out, but your eyes rolled to the back of your head at his futile endeavor. What followed this was a squeeze of your hand, and your eyes left the disco ball in the midst of completing its revolution to find Diego’s hand around yours. A sigh of relief escaped you upon realizing that the boy stood in his spot, rigid, his feet elevated by four-wheel skates that neither of you knew how to use. A tune faded to its untimely end at your desire, mere seconds passing before another song began with the temptation that one had to perk their ears up in order to hear and mutter the lyrics under their breath. A glance at your shoes became a prolonged fixation at the rink as smooth as the last time people glided past you, sparing one look at you in their periphery before they moved past you with ease and inevitably forgotten about you.

“Are ya’ scared, Diego?” The name tasted bittersweet on your tongue, as he was the first of your siblings to be given a name at your age. “Is that why you stutter like crazy?”

Diego shook his head and jerked his hand back to his side with the word ‘cooties’ muttered under his breath. “No.”

You shrugged. “I think my mom liked it here, took me all the time after work. Don’t think she likes me anymore, though.”

That moment in time led to Diego’s heart perhaps growing two sizes at your musings, not quite regretting becoming a part of your world when you were no ugly face. Too confident he was to consider it near sublime, as he made the mistake of putting one foot in front of the other only for his skates to slide off the ground… with his body following. For a world where reality could be bent, twisted, _created_ , the ache of his back latched onto him was nothing short of tangible. The notion of this inner world of yours as comprehensible was a question he would have to save for next time because the insight into your mind was no longer timeless the moment Sir Reginald Hargreeves somewhere, out there, ruined your morning with a clenched fist to the dining room table.

The next morning, and many more that followed, what was supposed to be your mother’s seat at the table inevitably became yours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please subscribe and comment if you can! Thank you for reading!


	3. Our Guilty Pleasures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Griddy's Doughnuts becomes your new favorite spot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Five said one thing about the siblings sneaking out to go to Griddy's and suddenly I'm full of ideas lol 
> 
> Shout out to everyone who has commented, gave kudos, or subscribed! I really appreciate it! Actual plot will come very soon haha

There was a promise between two people that enticed you towards the doughnut shop past the city you lived in moments following sunrise. For hours after your visit, the woman behind the counter would dwell on the image of your leaving, the chiming of the bell at the entrance signaling your departing from tempting sweets. The wrinkles were heavy upon her face, blonde hairs growing past her chin inching towards a brittle, shameful gray. She could argue that you were at fault, an eleven-year-old climbing atop elevated chairs with simply a shrug in response to her inquiring about your parents, yet you remained a customer nonetheless because the price of the doughnuts was too irresistible—that, and Agnes provided a good laugh now and then.

“Back so soon?” You giggled because you saw her the day prior.

However, one visit resulted in the conclusion that perhaps Agnes deserved the right to see the rest of your family, and maybe Griddy’s Doughnuts were a temptation that no child should give into alone. Your lips pulling from the edge of the glass mug, chocolate coating the cream tones coalescing with the warmth of your hot chocolate, your tongue swiped across the spot under your nose with a grin. You swallowed a portion of the white fluff quaking in the confines of your cup, placing it back onto the perfect, glistening circle that formed beside your unfinished plate. Then, your hand fished around the pocket of your uniform free of wrinkles and lint, pulling out several dollar bills that you had hurriedly shoved inside that morning. With a, “G’bye, Aggy,” you were well on your way with the promise that there were more tips to follow.

Of course, you were not one to break a promise, and you somehow convinced all seven of your siblings that doughnuts for breakfast were well worth the risk of Dad finding out that children should be acting like children and perhaps enlightening themselves with childish ideas. With the implication that doughnuts for dinner were even _better_ , you set out with hushed whispers in tow down ladders and main streets, your hands to yourself rather than clasped around someone else’s for comfort and warmth from the outside world. With Allison hand in hand with Luther, Six’s hand in Four’s, and Diego’s in Seven’s, you and Five led the trek without ever interacting. With the nameless shortly behind you two, you preferred to keep it that way lest Luther and Allison make their flirting any more obvious, not that they allowed you to edge closer to their bubble in the first place.

“You sure Dad won’t find out?” Number Six asked with a tremble upon his lips, and the more you found yourself huffing at his hesitation, the more he looked like a _Ben_ to you.

“Nope,” Five chimed in with a tug of his lips, “’cause Eight’s got a plan. Isn’t that right?”

You did not. “Yup, and if it don’t work… well, we can just blame the two love birds back there.”

What a relief it was for their attention span to not venture far past each other because you did not know how to shut up sometimes. However, the lights casting their magnificence over you and your siblings managed to be enough, and you all found yourselves basking in the faint, fleeting noise of cars speeding past a shop that meant the world to you. The parking lot was bare, save for the familiar pothole beside a parking spot pleading to stop becoming an inconvenience to the few that visited the store, and you smiled at the glint in your siblings’ eyes. Perhaps frozen in their spot in fascination, your first step towards the entrance of Griddy’s doughnuts coaxed them from their space, and you stepped in the familiar haven that Agnes so willingly provided you. Perhaps it was no chore for her, as the toll of the bell drawn out by your brothers and sisters’ tentative steps inside caused a mop of blonde hair to pop up behind the counter with a sickeningly sweet, “Back so soon?”

“Eight hot chocolates with whipped—”

Number Five couldn’t let you finish. “Seven hot chocolates, if you will. One coffee, lots of cream and sugar.”

The woman nodded her affirmation, turning to you with a cup of hot cocoa to slide perfectly into your chill, numb fingers. The whipped cream swirl on top was a favorite of yours, so of course she had to comply to her favorite customer by seducing a smile from your lips. Despite no one more deserving of her attention stepping foot inside, Agnes certainly was conflicted with the seats occupied before her; the grin on her lips nevertheless complemented the frowns weighing down the children awaiting their dessert, and she found her one match out of all of them: you, in love with the various flavors, colors, and scents never before seen. Unlike Sir Reginald Hargreeves, a man who believed firmly in the tumultuous environment as a way to manipulate your powers into something useful, the cheerful worker conveyed no implications she wanted you gone. Instead, a doughnut would be nudged towards your figure free of charge, as if asking you to stay a while. How could you refuse such an offer, especially since such sweets were a novelty to you only when your father deemed you worthy enough of affection?

“Stupid Five,” you cursed under your breath. “One coffee my ass…”

True to your word, Agnes had gotten a generous tip from the eight of you that night, and for many nights after when you felt brave enough to sneak out and experience the world all on your own.


	4. Monochrome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day was meant to be like any other... meant being the keyword.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything's going to shit next chapter and I can't wait

The day was meant to be like any other, outside you would venture with the promise of heightening your control over your powers as per your father’s request. _“The silence of your home would prove to be your undoing,”_ he chimed in upon quite literally barging into your bedroom with the banging and clanging of pots and pans, _“you must learn to hone your powers in the most dire of circumstances, without risking disruption.”_ Bullshit, you thought it all was, except his jurisdiction was a list of verbal commands that your mother took very seriously, and you were led out your household with the promise the door would open again for you in a few hours. However, you and Vanya—of course Vanya, the useless one was given a name before you—would perk up at the goodbyes from the rest of your siblings as they were off to fight crime and perform feats that New York City cops should have. The door would shut behind them, and the two of you would spare a glance at one another before returning your attention to the door you wished you were behind.

“Please— I have… I have a family at home.” A photograph was shoved in your face, tainted with years behind it and fading with the memories that followed. “See? I— _We’re_ desperate. Just let me go, and no one gets hurt!”

The day was meant to be like any other, except one visit to a corner store led to an unfortunate turn of events in which you were held at gunpoint with none of your siblings there to save you. Of course you trembled, the realization of your obligation to act causing you to swallow the dread down your throat, except none of that could stop you from reaching out and digging your nails into the hand that was wrapped around a weapon meant to scare, to kill. No harm could come to you in this world and the next, and you drew out an inhale upon the man no longer looking to you but his surroundings. A boy was the more accurate definition, a teenager forced to become a man because the world hadn’t done him any favors, except the boy had you beat by a few inches that he nonetheless remained intimidating. As comforting as it was to witness his awe, his astonishment mirroring that of a toddler at Disney World, there was still the barrel of a pistol pressed against the skin between your eyes.

That wasn’t so comforting. “Umm… you can’t hurt me here. You can stop now.”

“Who the hell are you?” The boy’s eyes were wide with bewilderment, his body becoming out of reach. “Where— Where the _fuck_ am I?” Then, a statement. “You’re… You’re one of those academy kids!”

“Nah,” you replied, grinning. “Just a nobody. You mind tellin’ me who the hell you are, and what the fuck you’re doing robbing a store so early in the morning?”

What followed was an ache in your soul at his plight for a means to an end, a verbal exhaustion lacing his tone as he describes his battle for his family’s survival in this cruel world. Homeless was what he was, shivering in the winter and shedding clothes in the summer, and nearby shelters were running out of space for people like him. His words would halt at some moments, as if attempting to gather up the courage to say the rest, ultimately putting his pride at rest for a warranted cry for help. The gun he once held dear to him was thrown to the side into the field of flowers you chose to pull him into, and your knees buckled into the grass as he lets out tears he must have been suppressing for so long. Someone like him should be thrown into jail, you wanted to remind yourself, except the waterfalls trail down his cheeks in a way that is too naïve, too immature for a child like him to endure.

You let him go… or at least you thought you did.

_“I heard a rumor that you woke up.”_

A rumor that came true, you supposed, because your eyes fluttered open to a fluff of curly hair and the lingering of mint in her breath. Over the shoulder of Allison was your father eyeing your tiny stature compared to his, and what had to be several people distancing themselves from the three of you. Clad in your silk pajamas, the droplets overhead buried themselves into your hair and trailed down skin incapable of reacting, and you were left with the cognizance that the rest of the world was brought to consciousness the same time as you were. Like you, that pull of Allison’s more than convincing words was what brought them to a reality in question, a world familiar but grievous from one built by a child not quite realizing what _this_ world has in store for them. Nonetheless, a chill was up in the air, an inquiry of what more an eleven-year-old could do to interrupt a balance thought to exist. Civilians cowered in fear around you, traffic at a halt as the illusion of you in that store faded, leaving you in the middle of a street as the fog threatened to swallow you and the distant memories of a boy you thought you saved.

You cried, not only because you were the cause of such disruption that ruined an otherwise peaceful Saturday morning, that brought the attention to news outlets in the city to a Hargreeves sibling otherwise hidden from the media, that interrupted the world itself from functioning… but because Luther came to your rescue that day with the impression that those who fell to darkness for the greater good of those close to them were not deserving of redemption.

Perhaps that was what made your siblings superheroes; in their eyes, and in the world they lived in, life was nothing but monochromatic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment if you can! It makes me so happy and I would love to hear your input!


	5. Run Boy Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you're 13, there are some highs, and there are some lows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's about to go to shit

You were finally reaching that dreaded age, the double digits edging you closer to death yet, thankfully, the climax of growing armpit hair and chest size. Disregarding the fact that this meant all Hargreeves boys held your heart and hormones captive, the only information given to you about your ailment was your sister Allison and pitiful trips to the grocery store during your ventures beyond the mansion. Now, the age of thirteen forced you to tone down your naivety, instead making way for adult things like… saving the life of hostages at a bank at the crack of dawn. At that point, society no longer cared for your age and how malicious the years were to you, just that you were born with the power to create and bring people to a reality separate from the one they lived in. Your name, or lack thereof, was a dehumanizing thought they turned the other cheek to.

Klaus, however, the blessed Number Four in your family stepped off his ledge of superiority to gift you with kindness and belonging since you joined the family. Unlike Luther or Ben, Klaus took pride in dismantling the rules your father held over you and your siblings, living with reckless abandon in a life that seemed to neither succumb or ascend; why should he, when what followed were personifications of ashes and decomposition treading behind his sober thoughts day and night? A walking Ouija board, the boy would rely on the world you lived in at the best of times and, if not… he learned a really cool trick in the streets that would do the job just as much. Quite the intrigue it brought you, the seconds that followed that first puff led you to the paradise that was your boundless mind before you decided moments later you were starved for peanut butter and jelly.

Which was why a smirk remained tugged on your lips upon Klaus’ attempts to lose himself in it all, his shoulder adjacent to the table as his waist twisted towards a direction hidden from your father’s gaze. With his hands under the table, his fingers tried at the paper holding questionable substances in his grasp, with only a glance from Allison before returning to the hooded eyelids of Luthers’ any indication something was amiss. Again, the man at the head of the table was sliding his fork through his plate, the yolk of his eggs seeping underneath the crisp bacon at the edge of the glass. Grace’s nails dug into the knuckles of her other hand, clasped with the other as she resumed her place seemingly unaware of what went on under the mahogany that was the Hargreeves dining room table. The one act of movement was the aligning of gazes with Ben Hargreeves, sitting across from you with a look her way that spoke a story about how he would rather not be sitting there.

Tapping Klaus’ knee, he passed you the cigarette, and you planted your feet against the rug to drag the legs of the chair against the table. Now, you might as well have offered a hit to your father with your seat right beside him, except his rare compliments towards Grace and Pogo provided a window of distraction, one that you very well took advantage of because you damn sure were not sharing. Now that your training was indoors with your other six, talented siblings, any assistance towards how unfair, how _humiliating_ the hours were much appreciated. Speaking of humility, Number Five threw that to the side with a knife embedded into the wood of the table, a scowl on his face directed at the man of the house who valued silence in the morning above all else unless you were involved, to which he said _fuck you_ in the form of a record player reiterating survival tips and the occasional math problem.

Number Five’s response to his father’s inquiry, a perking up of his ears at the disruption was a simple, “I’ve got a question.”

A few snide comments later, and your time-and-space jumping sibling manifested himself beside you, with only a roll of your eyes your acknowledgement of his powers. His nails sunk into his palms, crescent marks forming atop his skin, yet the boy could not bear to wave off his anger complementary to the silence weighing down the rest of his family. “A spatial jump is trivial when compared with the unknowns of time travel,” your father chastised him, the words spilling from his lips nothing but nonsense and conjecture to you. An inch of you, the adventurous and careless side of you, desired to open your mouth and defend your brother with words along the lines of, _“Let him go fuck off somewhere so he can bring me a DeLorean like in Back to the Future,”_ except your one and only goal that moment was to not think about any of that, or anything at all. With that in mind, you fell back to the cushion of your chair and wrapped your lips around the rolled up cigarette, inhaling the smoke as if seven of your siblings weren’t watching you do so all during the opportune time where Number Five was blocking your parents—guardians—from your vision.

Then, with a pivot of his foot, your persistent brother absolved himself of the wise yet superficial words of his father. Of course, that was the perfect time for you understand the definition of humiliation, and you huffed, you puffed, and you… coughed up your lungs.

Klaus’ guffaw of laughter would have perhaps brought out a chuckle from Number Five, but not only did he run from his father’s attempts to oppress a teenager longing for excitement and divergence, he ran from your life too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and subscribe! I would love some insight and perhaps your thoughts on this story!!


	6. Time Slip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Seventeen years later, the world forgets you exist."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACKKK
> 
> *Update* I apparently can't do math at 5 am

Seventeen years later, the world forgets you exist. One of the only memories of you in the eyes of any human with a desire for more in life is in the form of a chapter inside a book, _Extra-Ordinary: My Life as Number Seven_ , which can no longer retain its impact despite the attention to detail. Chapter Eight, affectionately titled “It’s Your World, Not Mine,” begins with Vanya’s impressions of you upon your first meeting, a paragraph that ends with the echo of your mother lugging around that same unicorn backpack over her shoulder, your life ending while hers was to commence without you. Your siblings flocked towards the stairs, eyeing the piles of cash inside the clear bookbag weighing at your mother’s frail body—shoulders hunched as if prepared to lighten a load years in the making. Grace and Sir Reginald Hargreeves stood beside you, a frown complementing the smile never wiping off the face of the former, neither one of them providing the comfort a child longs for when a parent leaves them. Vanya’s musings regarding your abrupt insert into the family finally shift their focus on you, your gaze fixated on the entrance as you stood at the center of the carpet awaiting your mother’s return… or perhaps awaiting a sign that someone in this world loved you.

Pitiable you were as a child; your powers were at first not worthy of combat or media attention. The ability to transfer your subconscious, as well as the subconscious of those you merely brushed against provided your mind was tranquil was heeded as trivial by your father and your siblings. Yet, not even Vanya could ever harness the courage to close the distance between the two of you, as those who haven’t bothered to do so, those born lucky like you, were meant to be followed. Regardless, she notes in twelve-point, Times New Roman font that Diego Hargreeves was once inclined to trail beside you on most days, perhaps remaining at your side as a result of your lack of reaction towards his speech impediment. Prior to his teenage years, the child thought nodding and shaking his head would suffice as it avoided the judgmental, inquiring gazes of his siblings who proved more than capable of pronouncing words never seen before; to this day, Vanya concludes Diego’s attraction towards you to this: you were the noise to his silence, the talkative to his taciturn.

Ironic, considering silence was a significant factor in your powers unleashing, your father soon coming to this realization upon forcing Pogo years ago to entwine his furry digits with your own soft ones. Sir Reginald Hargreeves’ breath was held in his throat, perhaps in awe of the connection between the two of you, with no interruptions to be heeded by those in contact save for the vibration of a handclap centimeters from your ear, as you were ever still with no consciousness to tether you to this world. Vanya’s recollection of those events on the bottom of the page is especially significant to any reader, as it becomes a reminder of how pathetic and minuscule her existence was, and how frightened she was of the growing possibilities of your powers. Perhaps her own jealousy was to blame, Vanya writes, that she was forced to sit atop bleachers while you lived up to your code name, _The Illusion_ , out in the field where you and your six siblings gained recognition and admiration from people like her. The envy lingers throughout the chapter—your chapter—as it ends with gratitude that, unlike you, she is gifted with the ability to hear the impending disapproval of her siblings, gifted with a destiny that allows her to respond.

Ben slides next to you, his body sinking into the mattress as his elbows press against his thighs, a thick paperback in his hands the source of his scowl. “Can you believe this?” is what breaks the ice, chipping at the wall you built around yourself, except what your sibling once expected as a reply is nowhere to be found. Your gaze does not avert from the rain drops trailing down the glass of your windows, the clouds beyond your bedroom an ominous purple before the weather threatens to prod at your surroundings, causing slight tremors among light objects inside. The hues of the furniture that inhabit the room with you lack that individuality one hopes to decorate their house with, instead mirroring a mood that takes ahold of you and vows to drag you down under for eternity. Nothing inside the room your soul latches onto has any resemblance of you, in fact, as your burst of creativity reflecting your growth towards maturity and understanding of the world left you on your sixteenth birthday. To conjure up a spring breeze, or perhaps a bird—alive, preferably, as you feel you might as well be dead and Ben’s just dead—existing to appease your reality is beyond your mental capacity. Judging by how a room shrouded in darkness becomes the same sight your eyes flutter open to every day, the same strike of thunder slithering across the top right corner of your window, there isn’t much more you can do. No matter how many books Ben attempts to search for in hopes of communicating with you, there isn’t much more _he_ can do.

In fact, the only answer, the only probable one, is to share gazes at one another and wonder where time had gone. With a clench of his jaw, your sibling’s hands are fished from the pockets of his leather jacket, instead resting on his knees as his eyes trail down the tufts of hair trailing past your hips, brittle to the touch. The knots tangle up in your strands of hair like clockwork, pulling at the fragile pieces as if spitting on any effort put into dragging your fingers through them. A smile doesn’t surface in response to his, a demeanor once youthful upon first glance accepting its losses; adoptive siblings the two of you were, both reaching your thirties while simultaneously losing your late teens and your twenties. The moon could force its impact against the Earth and life would be no better, snatching your childhood and the better part of your lives unapologetically, like it all meant nothing.

Seventeen years later, you begin to wonder if you would have preferred nothing. With a soft groan, your consciousness is pulled from your prison, instead dragged into the prison of those society deems insane, or abnormal. Upon your feet touching the white marble tiles decorating your room, you’re met with a wall—no window for you to look out of, save for one high above your stature that provides you a glimpse of daffodils and green leaves brushing against one another in a slow dance. This room is unlike the one you made no use of in your world. The thought behind the confining space is vague, leaving little room for comfort, yet the sight of the furniture exactly how you left it the day prior becomes familiar. No aspect of your childhood comes to haunt you inside these walls, save for the visits you rejected from your siblings throughout your time here, and you want less and less of your life to catch up to you as the days go by without you noticing.

Then Diego visits. “Eight, long time no see.” He enters your line of vision, his fingers the only voice you can interpret from him.

You shake your head, mouth pulling at the cap of a blue marker found in your drawer as your arm cradles a clipboard. Your palm wraps around the thick marker, pressing hard on the surface as you scribble out your answer: “I can read your lips.” 

He scoffs, except there is no ill will behind it. “You look like shit.” Meant for laughs, you suppose, except his eyes follow the bags under your eyes, down the sleeves of your sweater that trail too far past your hands. Then, the pity behind his gaze is revealed, and it humiliates you; it was never in his nature to pity anyone, much less you, since you were the one he often trailed behind during your adventures as an outwardly decent, normal family that gave a shit about each other. Regardless, he too ponders of the years you missed, musing of the years the two of you spent naïve to your impending disaster.

You can’t help but envy him, envy that he moves as the world does. Diego, as once mentioned by Pogo, lost his stutter as he grew from a quiet boy to a man in his thirties confident in his ability to discern right from wrong. Of course, that was evident the more your favorite sibling visited, as you witnessed him do away with the hesitation that plagued him in his interactions with others. The air surrounding his stature grew steadfast, much like it was when he was out representing the Umbrella Academy, and looking back you wonder if that much was obvious. One fact that is obvious is that the man towers over you, his arms usually crossed unless he’s already occupied in tugging at the fingers of his gloves. The front strands of his hair are held up by gel, few out of place, a trait about him quick to be ignored once catching sight of the scar that traces past his right temple. Every feature, every distinction of his that you latched onto for some semblance of consistency diminished along with his boyhood, and you’re just now realizing that there was no catching up to him.

Your attention was no longer on him, instead finding the tiny cracks embedded in your wall near hypnotic. The man is quick to forget you can’t hear his calls of your name, your code name, your _given_ name, so seconds pass before he approaches you and taps at the clipboard in your grasp. “There’s something you, uh… need to know.”

“Dad’s dead.”

You pause, and then you grin.

**Author's Note:**

> Spare,,, comment,, pls


End file.
